


Tea, Coffee, Family

by TianShan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Coffee, England really needs to top more, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Tea, UK/US
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3668856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TianShan/pseuds/TianShan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America likes drinking coffee with Canada in Toronto. Surprisingly, tea in Zurich isn't that bad, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea, Coffee, Family

**Author's Note:**

> I don't speak French (much like America), so if a French-Canadian wants to tell me that I can't order a double-double at Tim Horton's correctly, feel free to correct.

Canada's house in Toronto was located on a quiet, green cul-de-sac, which managed to appear appropriately segregated from the bustle of the city. America liked to visit when he had the chance; the city was clean and ever-growing, and he never tired of watching the locals get into car accidents and apologize repeatedly to each other. It was charming. 

More useful was the ability to spit and hit approximately 72 Tim Horton's, and it was from one of these that America was returning. The cool fall weather had been inviting that morning, and walking the half-block out to fetch coffee and donuts had seemed more appealing than not. Not to mention, it would no doubt tickle Canada and America was in the mood to please. Bounding up the concrete steps, America managed to unlock the door while precariously juggling breakfast.

When he had left the house Canada was still sleeping, but the tell-tale tones of CBC were coming from the living room at this point. When America managed to close the door, Canada's head poked around the doorframe into the living room, his trademark curl swinging lazily over his forehead.

"…I had been wondering where you'd gone," Canada admitted, and his lips curled up at the sight of the breakfast; he stepped into the foyer, wrapped in a red terrycloth robe.

"And since I didn't get barraged by worried text messages, I assume you were hoping I was making myself useful," America replied with a wicked grin, tugging one of the coffee cups out of the holder and offering it. "Double-double, medium."

"You're even memorized the terminology," Canada murmured, taking it from him with a nod and peeling the brown top open. "Next time I see you, you'll be ordering it in French."

That made America grin. "Je vais prendre un moyen deux-deux, s’il vous plait," he replied, waggling his shoulders in a teasing fashion.

"Your accent is terrible," Canada replied, purple eyes holding a serene good mood. "I'm not sure if I find you speaking French absolutely ludicrous or incredibly attractive." At this, Canada leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against America's cheek, sweet as always.

America sighed at the contact, allowing his eyelids to flutter shut at the gentle contact. "You find me incredibly attractive anyhow," he responded when Canada had pulled back.

"It's mostly your humility," Canada said, turning around and beckoning America into the light-filled living room, where the CBC was informing its viewers that winter was going to be cold that year. "Slow news day," Canada commented, flopping into his white couch.

Frankly, America couldn't understand the concept of decorating in white; if it were in _his_ house, the couch would have been covered with pizza and coffee stains by now. He sat down a little more carefully - he had put Canada in a good mood by fetching coffee, and didn't want to risk it turning into a passive aggressive 'it's _fine_ ' issue by spilling said coffee on the couch - and put the coffee down on the table before opening the box of Timbits, selecting a chocolate one. He hummed in agreement, looking at the screen.

It took a moment for America to realize that Canada was still looking at him and hadn't been paying any further attention to the obvious news. "…you don't actually speak French, do you?" Canada asked when America turned his head and raised an eyebrow.

"Not really," America said, shaking his head and sipping his (considerably more sugared) coffee. Eying his brother with a smirk, he added, "I can ask for coffee, though. And I understand enough at world conferences to know that France calls you 'my chick'."

That made Canada laugh softly. "He calls you his wolf," Canada returned, sipping at his coffee and taking a glazed Timbit from the box.

"Maybe we should come up with some asinine nicknames for each other," America suggested, taking another chocolate Timbit before carefully leaning into Canada. " _My little maple leaf croissant_."

America could feel Canada chuckle beneath him, more than hear it, and he sighed when Canada's hand rested in America's hair, slowly starting to stroke through it with cool, familiar fingers. "I don't believe you have the privilege to call me a pet name," Canada responded calmly. "And if I were going to be _any_ kind of baked good, I'd be a Canada Day donut."

"Or a maple bar," America suggested, reaching out and popping another Timbit into his mouth and leaning into the caresses to his hair. "…do you have pet names for anybody?"

"I call you 'hoser,'" Canada replied, his fingers never stopping their gentle motions. Once America gave the requisite snort, he continued: "And no, not really. Most nations I just call by their nation names. The only one I regularly call by their first name is you."

"Huh, really?" America asked, tipping his head up and sipping at his coffee. "I call lots of nations by their first name. You, England, Australia, France, New Zealand…"

"That's because you have no manners," Canada responded dryly, resting his coffee cup against the arm of the dangerously white couch. "We've all more or less gotten used to it at this point, just like you hardly ever say 'please,' 'thank you,' or 'sorry.'"

"Hey, I say 'please' and 'thank you.' I don't overdose on 'sorry' like you and England do, but I don't feel the need to apologize for _existing_ ," America blew a teasing puff of air into Canada's face, making the curl bounce. Canada's fingers stopped stroking America's hair and instead curled comfortably at the nape of his southern neighbor's neck.

"You make demands while smiling," Canada responded, voice still a little dry. "It's just difficult for most of the rest of us to know what to do with that. On one hand, it's rude to ask for the time without saying 'please'; on the other hand you're grinning like you've just won the lotto by speaking with us and we don't know how to handle it so we acquiesce."

That made America laugh, and he nuzzled against the Great White North's chest, pure relaxation in his body as he enjoyed this easy, unguarded proximity. The silence between them held for a while as America went through a few more Timbits and sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

"You said that you call _most_ nations by their nation name," America said after a bit. Canada looked down at him. "Anybody else? Only me by the human name?"

Canada blinked, apparently clearing some cobwebs from his brain. "Well, mostly, yes. When England was still the Empire and I was still a part of it, I called him Sire, but that was _more_ formal, not less."

"I still don't understand why you put up with that," America said, shaking his head. "Seems demeaning."

Canada sighed. "I think we've established that our opinions on the British Empire were and are quite different," he said, still nursing his coffee. "While it worked, it worked, and I was proud to be a part of it."

"Clearly, since you still have royalty all over your crazy colorful money," America retorted, but nuzzled at Canada again; a physical reassurance that he wasn't actually trying to pick a fight about it. "…you don't call him that _now_ , do you?"

That started a laugh out of Canada. "Good heavens, no. If I did he'd probably have a heart attack. Not to mention, he's not actually my sovereign anymore."

"So you just call him England, now, even in private?" This seemed rather strange to America; since the World Wars, he was aware that England had his tender moments in private and it just seemed bizarre that you'd use formal address with a close ally constantly. Rude or not, the human address was an indication of human emotion for America; he liked to call his friends by their human names as it indicated closeness. America also liked to be addressed as a human as well when possible, rudeness be damned.

At this point, Canada was looking at him curiously. "What do _you_ call him in private?"

"Arthur," America responded with a shrug. "Same as I call you Matt."

That got a slow nod out of Canada. "Interesting," Canada said. "And what does he call _you_?"

"Pillock, more often than not," America responded. "Alfred, otherwise. Why? Is it different for you?"

Canada's fingers stroked thoughtfully through America's hair again. "Yes," he said slowly, starting to look vaguely uncomfortable. His purple eyes shifted to America's, and America could easily read his twin's unspoken pleading not to ask.

"What does he call you?" America asked, railroading over the passive attempt, as usual.

Canada sighed and shook his head. "In private, he'll often call me his son," he said, speaking as if he were chewing thoughtfully on each word before releasing it, those purple eyes warily sizing up America's reaction.

America blinked. "And you call him?"

Another sigh. "Father, a lot of the time." His eyes were still carefully on America, clearly wondering if this information was going to get a negative reaction.

Instead, America merely resettled himself comfortably against Canada, putting his now-empty coffee cup on the floor. "Oh," he said simply, and turned his eyes up to glance at a commercial for Canadian Tire.

Fingers brushed along his chin, turning America's head back to Canada's - Canada arched an eyebrow over his glasses. "All right?" Canada asked, his own empty coffee cup having joined America's on the floor.

America smiled down at his brother. "Yeah," he said, leaning forward to press coffee-flavored lips to Canada's twinned ones; Canada's hand rested easily against America's shoulder, their glasses rucking up together.

When America pulled away, Canada reached forward to adjust Texas. "You put _way_ too much sugar in your coffee," Canada informed America, and America laughed.

"Leafs suck," he responded, cheerfully protecting his head against the pillow that Canada whapped it with.

# # #

Overall, America liked Europe; really, he did, and he probably liked it more than it liked him half the time. Fortunately, this bothered America not at all and he was still able to enjoy the way everything was older than hell and just so damn _quaint_.

One thing that was considerably less quaint, though, was the lack of ability to get a cup of regular joe. Either it was something fancy being spit out by a machine with a lot of foam, or it was instant. America wondered if he could convince Canada to spare a few Tim Horton's for the poor, coffee-impoverished European continent.

_We could call it the Horton Plan_ , America thought to himself as he stood in the elevator holding a briefcase. He liked Europe, really, he did, but he would like it more if he could _see it_. The conference was taking forever and was becoming more and more of a bear with the whole Russia-Ukraine thing going on, and it was exhausting. The hotel was supposedly located in Zurich, but it could have been Zimbabwe for all America had seen the sky.

The elevator dinged, and America stepped out, going to the appropriate room number and knocking.

Footsteps approached the door, and then after a pause it opened; England was still dressed in his black suit and green tie from the day, not even having loosened the tie. "Yes?" he asked; America could hear the blurble of an electric kettle in the background.

"Tough day," America said. In contrast to the still-crisp gear of the other, America had happily shed his sportcoat, cufflinks, and tie in his own room before coming up; the buttons at his throat had been undone.

England looked at him and hummed. "Indeed," he responded quietly. "And I'm not sure if anything we did here will make any difference, despite how grueling it's been for us."

America shrugged. "Russia's stubborn. We'll just have to hold with the sanctions and hope that it does enough damage."

England sighed. "Yes," he responded. "…is that why you came up here?"

"I came up here to be invited in," America responded, raising an eyebrow.

England looked at him for a moment, before giving him a curt nod and stepping away from the door. "Tea?" he offered lightly. This was a joke between the pair of them, really; England would always offer tea, America would always make a joke about throwing it in the bathtub. It was a familiar opening passage, the gateway where nations became humans.

After opening his mouth to make the expected retort, though, his mind flashed back to his last visit with Canada and the response to asking for a double-double in French. There was a pause. "Sure," he said, following England through the door and closing it behind him.

…when he turned around he almost ran _into_ England, because England had stopped walking. "Excuse me, _what_?" he asked, like the time America had suggested skydiving as a bonding activity. His massive brows were _furrowed_.

"I said I'd have some tea," America repeated, gesturing to the room. "It's not as if there's a coffee maker in here, and I despise instant."

This got a rather constipated expression out of England, and he reached out a hand to rest on America's forehead, like he was checking for a fever. "You despise _tea_ ," he reminded the other. "What year is it? What's your name? What have you done with the United States?"

America deadpanned at him. "2015, Alfred F. Jones, and I'm right here. Additionally, I do not despise tea. I drink it all the time."

"Yes, but _cold_ like a bloody moron," England said, finally turning away and going to the kettle now that the water had stopped boiling. "Are you _sure_ you haven't been abducted by your infernal aliens?"

"You sit around in a Savannah summer and see how much hot liquid you want to imbibe," America responded easily, stepping into the room and crossing over to one of the armchairs to sink into. "What kind are we having?" He craned his neck up to look at the bags next to the kettle. "Looks like Lipton."

"Absolutely not," England responded, walking over to his suitcase. "I have no idea what the hell has got into you, but I'm not going to waste this on _Lipton_. If we're going to do this, we are going to do it right." Opening the suitcase produced neatly folded clothes, and… predictably, a few boxes of tea. America watched with interest as England selected one.

"What kind's that?" America asked, taking in the sudden frenzied _excitement_ that seemed to have suddenly consumed the other nation. He tipped his head.

"Yorkshire Gold," England murmured, taking out a pair of teabags and deftly setting out a pair of mugs. "You're a coffee drinker - if you'd like any sort of basic black tea, you'll like this one. Malty, full-bodied, a little bitter. Generally I drink it as a breakfast tea, but, it's excellent at any time of the day."

America listened to this with a bit of bemusement. "Did you bring the graham cracker cookies with the chocolate that melts?" he asked.

"Digestive biscuits," England corrected, and it was a sign of how focused he was on the tea preparation that he didn't take the chance to bite America's head off with the incorrect terminology. "Yes, I have some." Once the tea had been set to steep, he went back to the suitcase and pulled out a cylindrical roll of the biscuits, setting them on the table next to America.

"Mm," America said, reaching forward for the package. While he hadn't ever had tea at England's place before, he was certainly familiar with the sweets and how good they were in coffee. However, England swatted his hand.

"Wait for the tea," he chided, and America was amazed at how foreign and yet familiar this felt; normally he'd go ahead and open the package anyway just because England wasn't his boss. This time, though, he left it, and watched as England produced milk and sugar from the refrigerator to set on the table, and brought over two clean, folded napkins and perched spoons - real spoons, not stirrer sticks - atop them, setting up a little place setting on each side of the table for the pair of them. Next, squares of paper towel to act as plates, and _then_ England slowly pried the biscuit roll open.

This was more effort than America was generally willing to put into acquisition of a hot drink, but just watching this happen was somehow cathartic, and it even seemed to pull England away from his normal, considerably-more-abrasive behavior.

America watched the other work, lost in his thoughts for a moment, before England finally came back with two mugs of tea, the bags removed, and set one in front of America. America stared down into the dark liquid.

"How's it best?" he asked, looking up as the other sat down in the armchair across from him. "Prepared, I mean."

England fixed him with another disbelieving look. "You're asking me how to take your tea?"

The question seemed more honestly confused rather than judging, so America lifted a shoulder and shrugged. "I would say you know more about it than I do."

"I've finally lost my mind and have clearly started to hallucinate," England said, shaking his head. "All right, here…" and here he reached across the table and picked up the sugar bowl. "I know you like your coffee more like sugar water than anything else, so…"--in went three spoonfuls--"and I know you like your coffee white, so…" in went a generous splash of the milk. England then picked up the spoon and carefully stirred it together.

America watched as the spoon coaxed the clouds of milk into the rest of the tea. After a moment, he could see his reflection again.

Then it made sense. It wasn't that this had _never_ happened before, and it wasn't as if America had _never_ had hot tea. It just had been a very, very long time.

When England replaced the spoon on the napkin and leaned back, America looked up from his reflection. "Thanks," he said, reaching forward and wrapping his hands around the mug.

England was preparing his own with a considerably smaller portion of both sugar and milk, and nodded in response.

Then they both looked at each other.

"You should try it," England suggested, his green eyes not leaving America's, clearly on pins and needles. America couldn't _remember_ the last time the other had looked more intimidated, really, and it was something of a marvel. War with Argentines produces stiff upper lip. Threat of America potentially not liking Yorkshire Gold Tea produces uncertainty.

America supposed it made sense, though. He nodded, and then picked up the mug, sipping from it.

The world did not end.

Before America managed to put the mug down, he burst out laughing.

"What is it?" England asked, and America noticed the line of his shoulders get _tight_.

America shook his head, covering his smile with his hand. "It's… it's fine. The tea is fine. It's just that trying tea proved to be more intense than trying to get Russia to back the hell up off Ukraine."

England visibly relaxed, and a smile bent the line of his mouth slightly. "You don't need to cover your mouth when you smile," he remarked quietly, picking up his own tea. "So long as there isn't food in it."

America smiled again, and then reached forward for one of the digestive biscuits, now that he assumed he was allowed to do so.

Then, it was quiet, and America was surprised at how domestic the whole thing felt. Normally America didn't let long silences linger, but the amount of contentment England was clearly radiating over the successful tea escapade made the quiet pleasant, for once. As for the tea… well, it certainly wasn't coffee, but it was much better than America had expected.

He put the empty teacup down, looking at the crumbs of digestive biscuits at the bottom before looking back up at the other nation. Oh, what the hell, he'd come _this_ far. "Thanks, Dad."

…this caused England's head to snap in his direction and the mug fell from his grasp, hitting the carpeted floor. " _Bugger_ ," he cursed quietly, bending over to pick up the mug, which fortunately had been almost empty. However, that _clearly_ wasn't the first thing on his mind since he left the tea to sink into the carpet. "And _what_?"  
  
America deadpanned. "You're old, but I don't think you need a hearing aid."

England rolled his eyes. "No, but, did you just call me… _that_?"

"It's what you are, isn't it? Or the closest thing I've got to it," America pointed out sensibly, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

England's mouth opened and closed like he was a fish out of water. "I have no idea what you are playing at," he managed after a moment, his pale face starting to color red.

America shrugged, looking at the sudden color painting its way across England's face. "I'm… not trying to make you mad," he said after a moment, voice quiet.

"I'm not angry," England said after a moment. "Just… you come in here, drink tea, and then call me _that_? What is the matter with you?"

"Matt said he calls you Father," America replied, tilting his head. "And you call him son."

England blinked, once, twice. "…Canada and I have… a different relationship than you and I do…"

"So you're Matthew's father and not mine?" America asked, trying to avoid thinking about the pang that went through him at that response. That… hurt more than he thought it would.

England's eyes met his. "I am of course your father," he responded. "It is obvious you are from me. I took care of you from when you were found to when you decided you'd had enough of me. But I thought the main thing I learned from you was that you'd do anything to be an equal. You didn't want to be the son. I have no idea why this is changing _now_ , and I cannot believe any of this is actually happening."

America drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. "If you want to be brutally truthful about it, in the modern era, we're still not equals," he pointed out.  "It's just kinda the other way around."

"Always have to be an arse, don't you," England responded flatly. "Canada - Matthew - always appreciated familial warmth, so I use it with him. You always seemed like you wanted to interact like mates."

America inclined his head. "You're right," he says with a shrug. "But maybe I was just wondering what it was like. We don't have to if you're uncomfortable with it."

England looked at him for a long, long time. "The idea hardly makes me uncomfortable," he murmured quietly. "So, that's what you want, then? For me to call you 'son'?"

"I was also hoping for sex," America pointed out reasonably. "It's been a while."

England snorted, and rubbed at his temples. "When we have nation meetings in places where the rooms are bugged, I always wonder what the humans think when they listen to the recordings," he said, shaking his head. He turned his head and looked at America for a moment longer before shaking his head. "Bloody hell. All right."

Rising from his seat, England removed his suitcoat and carefully draped it over the chair, before removing the tie and stepping out of his shoes. Thus disrobed, he crossed over to the bed and carefully settled down against the pillows, propped up against the headboard. America watched him settle, head tipped.

Once England stopped moving, he lifted an arm, beckoning the other over. "Come here," he instructed. "Lie down against me. We'll start with that."

America nodded and then stood up, toeing his way out of his shoes before crossing over and getting on the bed. After a moment, he decided to lie on his side, with his head resting against England's shoulder. "Like this?" he asked, acclimating to the phantom smells of industry and petrichor that England typically gave off.

England hummed affirmatively and waited for America to settle. "That'll do," he said, and one of his hands reached up to bury in America's hair, fingers starting a slow and practiced motion, one America assumed was well-learned from centuries working with young colonies. It was somewhat strange to have him be doing it _now_ , but after a couple of moments America decided that he would allow it.

Besides, he let Canada do it all the time, he figured. He tipped his head back into the fingers and _sighed_ deeply, his eyes closed to focus on the gentle sensation.

When lips touched his forehead, America's eyes popped open in surprise at first  - he couldn't remember the last time anybody had done that - but he stayed still other than a slow exhale.

England kept his mouth there for some time, and seemed to be breathing in and out, in and out, very slowly, as if savoring the feeling. After a few moments, America realized that their breathing had synced; when England pulled away and they both looked up, it was on a mutual inhale.

They looked at each other for a moment, before America tipped his head back more, and England pressed his lips against him, the contact staying light and chaste until America parted his mouth and England obliged by reciprocating.

…it didn't take long, though, before England's mouth became _considerably_ more insistent than America expected; America's eyes popped open as England released a shivering _groan_ and suddenly a hand was on America's chin to keep him still as England's tongue _plunged_ into America's mouth with a voracity America had never gotten out of a kiss with him before. In fact, it seemed less of a _kiss_ and more like England was trying to _eat him_ \- England's tongue scraped against the backs of America's teeth and the insides of his cheeks.

When England _finally_ let America up, panting, America felt like his lips had been swollen to twice their size; a line of spittle connected their mouths. "Is that… common… familial… relations in your country?" America managed, panting and _flushed_.

England was panting with his eyes closed, seemingly trying to gather himself. "Nothing about us is common," England managed, opening his eyes to look down at America before looking away. "You taste like tea," he murmured.

"Oh," America said, blinking up at him as that made more sense than it didn't. "Kiss me again, Dad?"

Another shiver went through England's body. "I'm not sure how wise this was," he commented, but obliged, one hand sliding into America's hair for a better grip and taking his mouth again, a little more forceful than usual.

_Interesting_ , America thought, reaching forward and twisting his hands in England's shirt and letting the other dominate the kiss. England's hands _tightened_ in America's hair before loosening and sliding down, his hands pressing against America's pectorals and then sliding down along his sides. America shivered at the touch and twined like a snake into the path of the other's hands.

England's breathing had quickened at this point and the older nation shifted; America allowed himself to be rolled onto his back while the other nation climbed atop him, straddling America at the waist, reaching forward to start undoing America's shirt buttons.

"Did you want to have actual intercourse?" England asked, parting the shirt material along America's chest before reaching for America's wrist to undo the buttons. America handed his hand over for England to expertly do the work.

"Sure," America said, replacing his first wrist with the second. "You're topping, then?"

England paused after he had undone the second cuff button and brought America's wrist to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss against it. "If that's what you wish," he said, his eyes meeting America's for a moment before lowering the wrist and looking around the room. "…and provided that there's lubricant somewhere…"

"There's some in the minibar," America returned, his fingers gently curling around England's as he half sat-up. "Condoms and lube. It probably costs about nine billion Euros, but…"

"Ever the thrifty one, aren't you?" England asked, squeezing America's hand before rising to go check at the bar, picking up a black box. "Fifteen Euro, turns out."

"Typical Europe," America said, sitting up to shuck his shirt off. "Before you can get physically fucked, you have to be economically fucked." He aimed a rakish smile back at England and leaned into the pillows.

"Quiet, you," England instructed. "And off with the trousers and everything beneath, if you would, please."

America hummed and undid his belt, lifting his hips so he could slide out of his briefs, pants, and socks, tossing them in a heap on the floor. England's eyes followed the clothing to the floor before rising again and canvassing across America's naked body for a long space of time.

When England's eyes rose to meet America's own, America quirked an eyebrow. "D'you want to watch?" America asked, holding up a hand and wiggling his fingers. "Watch me beat off, I mean."

A flush painted its way deeper across England's face and down under the collar of his shirt. "If you're offering, I'm not refusing."

America thought so, and tipped a corner of his mouth up. "If you bring me the lotion, I'm offering."

"As if you couldn't get up and get it your lazy self," England murmured, but his voice was too deep with lust to hold any heat. He walked over to the bathroom, and emerged with a small plastic bottle, which he tossed over to America - America caught it one handed and twisted it open, shaking it out on his hand. His head lifted when he heard the water running - England was filling the electric kettle again.

"I said I'd beat off for you, not that you could give me third degree burns," America said, rubbing his slicked hands together as England came back into the main room to replace the kettle.

England snorted and flicked the switch. "I'm preparing a beverage," he told the other mildly, sitting down in the chair. "Don't mind me."

America laughed. "So you're going to drink tea and watch me masturbate? You're as bad as I am.  Do you want me to sing There'll Always Be An England while I'm doing it?"

England raised an eyebrow, crossing an ankle over his opposite knee and leaning back. "Please, by all means."            

"You wouldn't last five seconds," America retorted, shaking his head before leaning back in the pillows with a sigh, letting his eyes flutter closed, and taking his cock in hand, fingers gently tracing under the ridge of the head, feeling little licks of pleasure race up and down his veins, feeling the temperature of his body start to rise in anticipation.

With his eyes closed, America's other hand slid across his pectorals, painting slick lines with his fingertips, feeling the skin cool in their wake, and just barely flicking a finger over a nipple - it hardened immediately, and digging a heel into the mattress gave leverage for a small thrust, sending a slow wave of feeling through his body, making his nerve endings _shiver_.

Distantly, he could hear the kettle start to rev up to boil as his own blood started to pulse with arousal; he allowed the hand at his cock to curl into a fist and _pull_ along his length - he exhaled deeply with the sensation, his thumb brushing over his cockhead.

"Mm," he said to himself, exhaling deeply again, hearing hot water being poured into a mug, and the soft sounds of a spoon clinking against the sides of a mug. The hand at America's nipples slid down and cupped his balls, sensitive with arousal. The room smelled like musk and tea, and it wasn't long before a dribble of precome streaked down over America's hand - he lifted the hand from his cock to his mouth--

The hand was intercepted by England's, and America opened his eyes to see the other one standing above him, face still lightly flushed, holding a white mug of tea in his other hand. Their eyes locked, and England slowly pulled America's come-streaked hand to his mouth, lips pressing to the wetness and kissing the seed away.

America's breath felt heavy and hot like a southern summer; he exhaled humidity. He watched as England lowered his hand and put it back around America's cock; America's breath hitched at the spike of sensation.

"Keep stroking," was England's low order, and America's eyes didn't leave the other as he obeyed, though they thinned with the increasingly-intense sensation.

When America's hand started moving again, England slid his own hand behind America's head, propping it up slightly; the mug came closer and pressed against America's mouth. America's hand stopped moving for a moment as warm tea - lukewarm, really, not hot enough to burn - brushed up against his upper lip.

America's eyes fluttered closed, and he parted his mouth to allow the sweet, milky liquid to slide down his throat. His hand picked up again.

"Good lad," England said once the mug was empty, his voice gravelly with his own obvious arousal. The sentence did all sorts of weird things to America's insides, twining with the sexual tension. "Are you ready to be stretched?"

America's eyes looked back up again, and he nodded.

England nodded slowly in response, before he bent down, his mouth next to America's ear. "Son, I need to hear your voice," he said, voice so quiet it almost wasn't there.

There it was again, that strange _twist_ inside of him, that wrong-yet-right - America finally realized why England had been turning all sorts of colors when being called 'Dad.' "Dad, I'm ready to be stretched," he repeated, voice uncommonly low as sexual desire entwined with this entirely foreign element.

He could feel England's body tremor again with the same foreign feeling; he could feel England nod. "All right. Keep stroking yourself. Turn on your side and lift your leg when you're ready."

America nodded and started the rhythm up again on his now rock-hardcock; England settled in at America's side, a little low. After a few more strokes, America hummed and turned onto his right side, bending his left knee to open himself for England, who hummed behind him and pressed up against America's back, England's shirt and trousers rubbing against America's naked, heated skin.

"One finger," England said, and America gasped softly as he felt fingers cool with lubricant slick against the back of his balls and gently press against his perineum for a moment before circling against his entrance, lubricating the surface before the finger penetrated to the first knuckle. America _groaned_ , the sound guttural and low before thrusting back onto the finger… which was then quickly removed and America _yelped_ at a smart smack to his upper thigh.

"If I'm going to be the father here, you're going to listen to me and let me take care of you," England stipulated, voice low from against America's ear. That wrong-right feeling slithered around inside of America like electric silk snakes. "All right?"

England did seem to be asking for permission a whole lot more than he normally did, America realized distantly, but that was probably for the best. "All right. I'm sorry. I just want--"

"What you're wanting for is _discipline_ ," England interrupted, voice a little dry. "Now, hold yourself together this time and don't start rutting like a barbarian at the first touch."

That got a _huff_ out of America. "Okay, _Dad_ ," America grumbled, because England certainly knew how to act like an old man when he wanted to.

That got a chuckle from England and a light ghosted kiss against his shoulder blade. "That's right," he said, voice low and quiet. The fingers ghosted down to the small of America's back before one slowly slid its way inside to the first knuckle.

The next forty-five minutes were absolute _torture_ for America - in a sense. England would slide fingers in, take them out, massage at America's perineum, slide more fingers in, remove them, tease his balls, have America roll over and spread on his knees while England worked more cool lubricant inside him and America pinched his own nipples on command. More fingers slid in and out of his body, easier now; America's eyes rolled back in his head and he whined when England instructed him to stroke his own cock _again_.

"I'm going to _come_ ," he moaned, half-insentient and feeling like his entrance was so wet and loose he was going to fall out of himself.  " _Please_ , God, I need to be fucked--"

As America was on his hands and knees and moaning into the mattress, his ass was up in the air and was in perfect position to receive the five sharp smacks that England delivered. "Quit whinging," England instructed from behind him. "I don't know why you're begging God, anyway. He's not going to fuck you; I am."

"Ow!" America cried out, his back arching in surprise. "Ungh, England--"

"So we're back to the formal address now?" England asked, gently rubbing America's left ass cheek, the one that had gotten smacked. "That's a shame."

" _Daaad_ ," America whined, unconsciously waving his ass in the air a bit, both because of England's rubbing and also the mounting need to be _filled_. "I'm _ready_."

"You're ready when I say you are," England responded, clearly loving the hell out of this too much for it to be over. "And if you don't want a repeat of _this_ \--" England prodded America's punished left ass cheek, "--on the other side so you're symmetrical, you'll do as I tell you to do."

America groaned helplessly into the mattress again, grabbing his cock with a shaking hand and his body _shivering_ as he stroked, feeling his loose entrance clench in on itself, wanting something _inside_ of it.

"Very good," England's voice said from behind him, sliding two fingers inside America's looseness, drawing another low moan. "I'll have you know that you are doing a very good job. You have better stamina than I thought."

America grunted. "Are you _ever_ going to fuck me?"

"To be honest, I could do this for a long while yet," England admitted, and when America looked over his shoulder, he could see that England's face had a heavy red tint to it. "But I don't know how long I trust your patience for." His eyes met America's. "This has been all right so far?" he asked in a lower voice.

America wanted to _smack him_. "Your cock. In me. _That_ is not happening, and _that_ is not _all right_."

America heard a low chuckle, and then, _mercifully_ , heard England shifting out of his trousers. "Who am I?" he asked.

"England. Blighty. Britannia. Albion. Logris. United Kingdom when you're feeling like a pompous ass about it. I don't know, you've got about a half-billion names and you share some of them with the rest of your brothers on the island and I can't goddamn well keep track of them all," America panted, feeling that his time of release was nigh and _willing to say anything to get it_. "Which one do you want me to moan?"

"Who am I to you?" the voice asked, and America heard England shift up atop him, his lips brushing the back of America's ear with the question.

America panted, trying to get his thoughts in order. "You're my father," he responded.

"That's right," England said huskily, and America tipped his head back in silent reference as finally, _finally_ England's cock filled him.

America _clenched_ around the welcome intrusion, drawing a strangled noise from England behind him. "Don't do that," England managed, panting. "Unless you want me to last five seconds."

America _groaned_ , but forced himself to loosen up.

"Just lie there, and let me do this," England instructed, and America felt England's body shift as he pulled out and then sank back in. "Oh, God," England muttered under his breath.

America wanted to make a return quip about how his name wasn't God, but was unable as England slowly started to pick up the pace, starting a dogged rhythm that was _satisfying_ , but America wanted to rut and press back up against it and do something to get England to _speed up and fuck him_ , but that would probably make England retreat back into his disciplinarian routine which he seemed to like so much and America was pretty sure he would expire on the spot if England stalled again.

So he allowed England to set the pace, but to compensate the room was full of _groans_ and _whines_ as England took America methodically to climax - until suddenly America's mouth was full of fingers.

"Suck," England ordered tersely, and America _did_ , his tongue laving over the handful of digits and mouth applying forceful suction that made England groan into America's shoulder as his rhythm plowed on.

America's fingers clenched into the sheets as his body was razed up and down with electric pleasure, slowly spooling and tightening inside of him, vague images of soldiers marching in lockstep, perfect rows of military perfection performing flawlessly, the cogs in the machine that would build the world in its image---

England pistoned one final time, and America couldn't take it anymore - he yelled around the fingers in his mouth and felt his seed soak the mattress below him; his body clenched powerfully and he could feel England's body seize above him as he too, was given to orgasm.

Some time later, America was slumped on the bed, with England's fingers still loosely in his mouth, panting around them. A few second passed, and then England removed his fingers, and America licked his lips.

England's damp fingers rested on America's hair, and started to stroke gently. "Would it be too much to not ask you to move for… at least a little bit?" England's voice asked tiredly. "After I pull out?"

"Why?" America asked, voice low and a little dazed. "I… I'm not sure how long I want to lay in my own mess for."

"It's not your mess I'm concerned about," England said, voice still very, very low. "I'd… like my seed to stay inside of you for a little longer, though. If it makes you uncomfortable…"

America blinked and looked over his shoulder at the other - England looked back. "For a bit," America said, not seeing what the harm of it was.

England nodded, and then pulled out. "I'll take care of the rest," he said, tucking himself into his trousers and standing up, zipping them. America sighed and rested on the pillows, not sure how the other could even _think_ of standing up at this point.

But, surprisingly, England did. America heard the kettle start up again, and listened to the other rummage for extra blankets in the closet. America had to shift slightly when England stripped the bed of the soiled top blanket, but relaxed when England - again instructing him not to move - tossed a clean one over him. The water ran in the bathroom, and when England came out with a damp washcloth in his hand, America reached for it, but England didn't hand it over.

"Might I?" England asked, and… America nodded, shifting slightly as England wiped down his face, the back of his neck, his underarms, his stomach and cock, and then down his legs and, last, his cleft, wiping up the extra lubricant.

America closed his eyes and floated until the mattress dipped again, and America could smell tea. England had two cups of it again, and offered one out.

Shaking his head, America took the cup. "You must have more tea in your veins than blood," America said, looking down into it and taking a sip.

"Wouldn't surprise me," England said loftily, and beckoned America over to lean against him.

America did, and sighed into England's shoulder. "It'll have to come out eventually, you know. Your come."

England looked down. "Of course. It's not like you can get bloody pregnant, and I can't even think about what a half-you half-me creature would be like. It's more the idea of it than anything."

America snorted, sipping at his tea as England started stroking his hair again. "I'm staying here tonight," he informed the other.

"I had assumed you would," England replied, brushing his hair back slowly, methodically. "… _was_ there anything that brought this on? If you had told me this morning that today would end with you naked on my bed on your third cup of tea, I would have called you seven kinds of idiot."

America looked over the edge of the tea mug. "Don't think that this is going to become regular practice," he told England dryly, shaking his head. "And I'm not sure. I had just been talking with Matt, and he mentioned that he used to call you Sire--"

Here, England's eyebrows hit the ceiling. "If you ever want to do _that_ \--"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," America chuckled, shaking his head. "Then he mentioned he now calls you father and you call him son. I wanted to see what that was like, I suppose."

England snorted and sipped his tea. "Did it measure up?"

America carefully settled into England's side. "I enjoyed it, yes. …very different." He tipped his head up. "I did love you like a dad before saying it, though, so it wasn't some great revelation."

America could feel England's body sigh beneath him, and a hand rested in his hair. "Son," England said in response, raising his tea to his mouth without looking at him.

America smiled.


End file.
